Bad Choices
by norfintroll
Summary: As John Winchester searches for his son on a dark night in New York, can he trust the help offered to him by a mysterious hunter? Hybrids aren't in the lore. They don't exist. But somehow, one does...his name is Blade. One-shot. Vamps die according to Supernatural rules. Supernatural belongs to the estimable Mr. Eric Kripke, Blade belongs to Marvel.


**Bad Choices**

Coming to New York was a mistake. John knew it—he'd always known it. Once they'd taken care of that haunting on Long Island, he should have shoved the boys back in the Impala and hightailed it back to the Midwest states where they'd have less chance to get into trouble.

But no, he'd listened to their pleas and taken them into the big city, with its ear-splitting car horns, its polluted stench, and its alleys full of supernatural and earthly danger. Teenagers! God, why hadn't he laid down the law to Sam and Dean?

If he'd done that, if he'd listened to his gut, he wouldn't be standing alone here in a dark street, wind blowing against his face, looking desperately for his son.

They'd all gotten back to the hotel a little after eleven and fallen asleep immediately. Or so John had thought. But his instinct had awoken him after an hour, and he'd glanced across to the bed where the boys were supposed to be sleeping.

Sam was still there, dark hair tousled across his forehead, mouth half-open, snoring lightly. But Dean was gone. His pillow was tucked under the blanket, making a lump that was obviously supposed to deceive his father.

John's feet were on the floor in an instant. In the light from the window he dressed and scribbled a note: "Sam, stay here. I'll be back soon." His eyes fell on his bag of gear: he might need a weapon. The solid handle of a machete met his fingers, and he slid it inside his jacket. Then he slipped out, pulling the door closed behind him. Sam wouldn't budge, he knew. Sam was a good boy.

Dean, on the other hand…John's chest tightened as he hurried outside, keeping an eye on the passersby. There were so many people, even at midnight! Damn. Damn. Damn. There were things in the city, human and otherwise, that could take out his foolhardy son in a heartbeat.

"He's just a kid," John muttered, scanning the street. He was a hunter, and his movements were instinctive; he started moving along the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for bars, neon signs, clubs—the places Dean would go if he got half a chance.

"Hey, honey." A hooker in a short red dress and eight-inch black heels caught him by the sleeve of his jacket. "Looking for something?"

John was about to brush past her, but stopped. Prostitutes noticed people; it was their job. "I'm looking for my boy," he said. "Dark hair, tan jacket, blue jeans. Might have come by here."

The woman laid a shiny black fingernail on her red lips while she met John's eyes. "Maybe," she said. "Yes—about fifteen minutes ago, I think. I saw him go around the corner to that club." She nodded in the direction of a side street with an iron-barred door. A bouncer hovered by it unobtrusively, his face in the shadows, hands folded across the front of his suit. The whole setup was shady, John thought, but he wasn't worried about himself. He was worried about his son. He started down the street towards the door.

"Wait a minute, darling." The hooker came after him, moving quickly and smoothly in her tall heels. "I know the guys here. I'll help you find him." She nodded to the bouncer, who opened the door.

The stairway reeked of black mold. John hurried down into the darkness, aware of every sound and movement around him. The subwoofers somewhere in the bowels of this building shook the concrete like an approaching train, and he grimaced. That woman was still at his back, too close for comfort; he didn't trust her, she was a snake in the grass if he ever saw one. You could end up with a knife in your ribs in a place like this.

Another steel door yielded when he pushed it, and the light and heat and bone-rattling sound struck him in the face. Everyone was dancing, and the crowd was so thick that John could barely make his way through it. Even so, he was conscious that the woman was still at his elbow as he pushed through the overheated bodies.

He made his way towards the bar. Bartenders saw everything, and they'd know if Dean had been there.

"What can I get you, buddy?" The man behind the polished granite counter spoke, barely turning his head to glance at John.

"I'm looking for my son." John slid a twenty across the bar. "Tall, dark hair, tan jacket—too young to be in here, but someone saw him."

For the first time the bartender looked full at him. He was a young man, with ice-blond hair and blue eyes whose pupils were tiny black dots. John's hunter instinct suddenly went on full alert. Those eyes weren't right.

He took a step back. Bodies pushed against him and the music pounded in his ears, but his mind was absolutely clear. This was a trap—a setup. He wasn't worried about himself, but he could only pray that his son wasn't here, that Dean had avoided the seductive vamp who hovered at his elbow.

"Where you going, sweetheart?" Her sweet voice was in his ear; her mouth hovered close to his neck.

John took another step back, his machete in his hand now, and at sight of the blade the crowd fell back, clearing a space around him. The music stopped in mid-beat and silence dropped over the room.

"Whatcha doing?" The female vampire seemed amused; she perched on the edge of a bar stool. "You can't fight us all, you know, honey."

They were all vampires—the whole room was full of creatures hungry for his blood. John watched them all, wary of movement at his back, balancing the machete, ready to swing.

"Give it up," someone said: a hulking creature with arms folded, standing in the crowd. "It will hurt a lot less if you surrender."

There were several shrieking giggles from some of the females at this statement.

John shook his head.

"I've never seen anything like it, have you, Ernie?" the hooker said to the big guy. Then she addressed John again. "You know you're going to die, don't you? Why don't you just give up and beg for mercy like everybody else?"

"That's not who I am," John said. Every nerve was on edge, waiting for the rush. He'd bring down as many as he could, send heads rolling: if he could get into a corner, he'd be able to protect himself a little while longer.

"Let's do it now!" one of the females, a tiny blond with sharp white teeth, whined in irritation. "We haven't killed yet tonight. I want fresh blood, not that refrigerated stuff." She circled close to John, barely out of range of the machete.

Her words sent a wave of relief over John. Dean hadn't been here; they hadn't killed tonight. God, if you're there, thank you, he thought, and in the same moment his machete flashed and sent the blond vampire's head flying through the crowd.

At the same instant, a moment before they would have torn him apart, there was a scream from the doorway: a dying scream, so loud that everyone froze for just a second, and then they began to run.

John didn't really care what was happening on the other side of the room; he was lopping heads with huge, angry swipes of his machete. He caught the hooker with a startled look on her face; blood spurted across the bar as her body fell onto it.

The room was clearing rapidly; already it was almost empty. John caught a movement over his shoulder but didn't turn quickly enough as Ernie, the huge vampire, brought a beer bottle down on his head. He went sprawling, dropping his machete, knowing it was over.

Only it wasn't. He was up, staggering, fumbling for his weapon, finding it, coming up ready to swing again only to see Ernie's decapitated body drop to the floor as if it had been struck by lightning.

"Easy, brother," a voice said. "We'd better go."

John, still dizzy from the blow on the back of his head, grasped the hand that was offered to him and looked up at a towering black man in some kind of body armor and a black trench coat; a man that had a long sword in his grip and a good-humored grin on his face that seemed massively inappropriate for the moment. He seemed relaxed, almost as if he was enjoying the moment, and he sliced the head off a panicked vamp without even turning to look.

"Come on," he repeated, nodding at John to follow him towards the door. "They'll be back."

They ran together across the floor; John slipped in a pool of blood but caught himself. Blade moved a little ahead, his trench coat swinging widely around his body. A born hunter, John thought. Not _made_ , like himself, but born to the life.

"Uh-oh. Too late." Blade stopped short in the doorway; an iron gate had been slammed across the opening. "We'd better go this way." He moved like a tiger, quickly and with deadly intent, through a hallway lined with doors.

"Who are you?" he asked John without stopping.

"Name's John Winchester. I'm a hunter from Lawrence, Kansas," John panted. This guy had almost superhuman speed, and he was having a bit of trouble keeping up.

"Well, Dorothy, you are _most_ definitely not in Kansas anymore," the tall man drawled as he stabbed a leaping vampire in the stomach, yanked his sword back out, and cut its head off. "Not the smartest thing, walking in alone like that, although I gotta give you props for the performance."

"I was looking for my son," John said sharply. "Who are _you,_ anyway?"

"Me? I'm Blade." He chuckled deeply, grimly. "Here. We can go out this way." He stopped and nodded to John, indicating a circular opening in the ceiling with a ladder hanging from it. "That'll get us to the street."

John swung himself up, still holding the machete, and pushed aside a cover to rise up out of the hallway and into the cool darkness of the night.

"You all right?" Blade asked, following him and shoving back the cover. "You took a bad crack on the head there."

"I'm fine," John said, reaching back to feel his scalp. "It's hardly bleeding at all." He pulled his hand away; red blood stained his fingers.

He looked down at those blood stains, shiny in the light of a street lamp, and then, sensing an odd change in the man beside him, looked straight up into Blade's face.

Pure hunger in those strange eyes, staring at the drying blood. John saw it, and his throat went a little dry. He'd faced down a roomful of vamps without fear, but there was something different about Blade.

"You're a vampire," he said. He had a strong grip on his machete now.

"Damn," Blade said. "I should have worn sunglasses." He smiled again. "And you're not entirely correct, brother. I have vampire blood in me, yeah. Half-human, half-vampire. All the benefits and none of the inconveniences—except the bloodlust."

"It's not possible." John shook his head. "It's not in the lore. Humans can't mate with vampires. Hybrids don't exist."

"Who said anything about mating?" Blade sounded disgusted. "As I told you before, Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore. I'm living proof that a hybrid does exist."

John's mind was racing. He said nothing, eyeing the other man up and down. Blade had saved his life. But was he human, or a monster?

"You said you were looking for your son?" Blade asked.

"Yeah." John was still wary.

"I'll help you find him. You got something of his?"

John shook his head, then hesitated. "There might be something in my car."

They walked together through the streets, back to the Impala. John's head ached. He still didn't trust the man at his side, still wasn't sure what to make of him. Was it really possible? A hybrid? Even Blade had said he was an isolated case.

"Here." He handed Blade a jacket from the back of the Impala. "That belongs to Dean."

Blade bent his head and inhaled the odor of the faded denim. It was such a vampiric act, so monster-like, that John's fingers tightened involuntarily.

"Let's go," Blade said, and began walking fast along the street.

Fifteen minutes later, after winding through a maze of alleys, the two men burst out onto a street that was wider, more brightly lighted.

"Looks like your kid's gone to hang out at CBGB."

"Seriously?" John shook his head. They crossed the street and he looked in the window. "It's him," he said in relief. Then he spun on his heel. "Where are you going?"

Blade paused in the middle of the street, the wind twisting his coat around his body. "Listen! I've got no beef with you, and you've got none with me. We're on the same side. But I'd suggest you pack up your boy and get him out of the city. No telling how many vamps got your scent tonight."

"We'll get out," John said grimly. "But who's going to take care of these vampires? You're only one—hunter. You can't do this alone. There's too many."

For the last time he saw the flash of those white teeth. "Don't worry about that, Dorothy. This is my town." And Blade was gone, quicker than even John's eyes could follow.

Alone, he turned back to the window. Even from here, he could tell that his son had been drinking. There were girls hanging all over him, and he was lapping up the attention. Thank God he was safe, anyway, but there'd most definitely be a conversation tomorrow morning.

However, John had already decided not to mention Blade. Or the vampires. Or any of it. This was one of those things that the boys didn't need to know. In fact, except for the bruise on the back of his head, it was hard to believe that any of it had happened at all.

And it would be a cold day in hell before he brought his boys to New York again.

He pushed open the door, and his voice cut through the chatter in the room.

" _Dean Winchester!"_


End file.
